by Mandy Hager
I try to block out all the other manic skaters and match his pace — and for a moment we are totally in sync. Then … whomp! I’m crashing down, Johannes’ gangling limbs caught up in mine.
‘Oh god, I’m so sorry!’ I try to scrabble up, nearly neutering him with my knee in the process.
He rights himself then helps me up. ‘Are you all right?’
‘So long as I don’t ever have to sit again.’ My legs are shaky now and all the confidence I’d gained has leaked away.
‘Enough?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ I let him tow me from the ice and help to pull my skates off.
The Professor’s chuffed that I managed to stay on my feet, even if it was only for a matter of minutes. ‘You’re a natural, Tara. Not like my grandson here.’ He grins at Johannes and shakes his head sorrowfully. ‘All speed no style, my boy. And to think of the hours I spent on you.’
Johannes isn’t bothered. ‘Gets the job done,’ he says, as we reach the car and he helps the Professor back into his seat. ‘Maybe next time we can practise turning, huh?’ His eyes briefly meet mine before he ducks his head and fiddles with the keys.
We drive further around the coast until Johannes parks near a small café in a classic half-moon bay. A waitress leads us to a table overlooking the promenade that separates the road from the sea. Now that there’s nothing to do but make polite conversation I’m fumbling again — they’re so at ease with each other I feel like piggy in the middle. Thank god, the waitress soon returns to take our order and the meals quickly follow. Then I think of something. ‘Professor—’
He holds up a hand. ‘Please call me Max. I’m happy to say that my teaching days are over.’
‘Thanks. So, Johannes said he saw some Van Goghs in Paris. Did you go to the Musée d’Orsay?’
Max nods. ‘Indeed. You know they have a whole room dedicated to Vincent there? Well over a dozen of his works.’
‘If I was there I think I’d die of happiness.’ I feel my cheeks heat as Johannes’ gaze nets mine. ‘Which ones stick most in your mind?’
Max closes his eyes and I can almost hear his brain ticking over. ‘It’s hard — when you’re in a gallery so overflowing with priceless treats you’re like a castaway offered a feast. You don’t know where to start — and each dish is a satisfying meal all on its own. After a while, it all becomes too much. The ideal would be to visit every day for one whole week.’
‘My favourite was the couple sleeping in the field,’ Johannes says. ‘I wanted to jump in and lie down next to them, it looked so warm and peaceful.’
‘That has to be The Siesta,’ I say. At least here I’m on familiar ground. My gaze drifts outside to the people strolling the promenade as I summon up the painting in my head. ‘Amazingly, he painted it in the asylum in Saint-Rémy; it’s a knock-off of Millet’s Four Moments in a Day.’ I know I sound pretentious now but I can’t stop — it’s not often I have a chance to talk like this. ‘I love that he’s only really used two colours, but with all their subtle variations. Soft dove blues, all the delicate shades of violet, the yellows and oranges of—’
Jesus. Is that Mum? There, out on the promenade. Her hand held by an unknown man. I press my nose against the window. Hear the blood swish through my ears. My god! It is. She’s smiling, and … bloody hell, they’re kissing. Not just any kiss. It’s lingering. A lovers’ kiss.
The swish transforms into a roar. ‘I have to go!’ Max looks alarmed. ‘Sorry. Thank you. I—’ I flee the table, dodging around customers, and burst out the door. Charge across the road, nearly into the path of a tooting car. Mum and the man are past me now, their figures melded as he wraps his arm around her shoulders to pull her close. Hypocrite! Liar! My head is going to burst.
I chase them down, reach, then overtake them, swinging around to meet them head-on. Mum startles and shrugs away his arm. As I fight to catch my breath, I watch her blush an ugly puce.
‘What the hell is this?’ Pure Irish fishwife. The real Miss T. ‘You should be at the hospital. With Dad.’ I can’t help myself. I reach forward and give the man a good sharp shove. ‘And who the fuck are you? She’s married, you know? Her husband’s dying while you—’
Mum backhands me across my mouth. ‘Enough!’ The man is hissing in her ear. He’s plain and grey, with the flush of a big drinker.
‘Thou shalt not commit adultery, Mum. Remember? You’re such a bloody hypocrite — everything you’ve lived is one big lie.’
I can see her rallying now. The gritty flint is back in her eyes. ‘What would you know? You ran off and deserted your daddy, not me. You couldn’t even care for him without making him worse. You—’
I fling my hands over my ears. How can she say this? I’ve given my entire life. ‘Shut up! Shut up! It’s you who betrayed the trust.’
‘For the love of God, Tara, we’re in a public place. You’re making a total eejit of yourself.’
‘Oh, like you’re not, Mum?’
She hisses through gritted teeth. ‘Stop it, do you hear? You’re acting crazy.’
‘Yeah? Crazy like Van? You drove her so crazy from a lack of love she killed herself.’
The colour drains from her face as she grabs me and starts to shake me — hard. ‘You know nothing, d’you hear? Nothing. You think you can judge me? You’ve no idea.’ Her fingers are drilling holes into my arms, my head jerking so out of control I’m scared she’ll snap my neck. And still she yells, though now I’ve lost all sense of what she’s saying.
People run towards us. I try to fight her off, but Mum’s too fierce. All I can do is open my mouth. I scream to the rhythm of her rock and roll.
That’s when the man steps in. He yanks Mum’s arms away, the sudden release dizzying me. The pavement rises up. Then someone hooks their hands under my arms and hauls me back to my feet.
‘Come on, Tara. Come away.’ Johannes takes a firm grip of my arm and frogmarches me back over the road to the car. He pushes me into the back seat and climbs in next to me.
‘Bloody hell, what was that?’
Mum and the man are scurrying back the way they came. He’s getting a piece of her tongue now as well. ‘Family shit,’ I say. I have a desperate need to cry, but gulp it back. There’s not enough air in here. Not enough in the entire world.
‘Do you want me to take you home?’
I can’t bear the way he’s staring at me. I shield my eyes. ‘No, I’ll walk. It’s not your business. I need to be alone.’ I scrabble for the door handle.
‘It’s miles.’ The door clicks open and I slither out. He’s up and out the other side, glaring at me across the silver roof. ‘Come on. You haven’t even finished your lunch.’
‘Tell Max I’m sorry — and thanks. I’ll see him tomorrow at work.’ I have to get away. That toxic soup has chosen now to roil up.
I turn back at the corner and he’s still standing by the open car door. I can’t think about him now; I just need to get round the bend. Thank god. I stagger to the gutter and throw up.
7
It’s true that I’ve lost several people’s trust, it’s true that my financial affairs are in a sorry state, it’s true that the future’s not a little dark, it’s true that I could have done better … and that I lack more, infinitely more than I have. But … if I don’t keep on trying, then I’m lost, then woe betide me.
— VINCENT TO THEO, CUESMES, JUNE 1880
IT TAKES ME A while to find a bus stop but I eventually catch the right bus. I sit staring out the window, the scene with Mum replaying in my head. It’s clear by the way they kissed it wasn’t a one-off. How long has she been skanking around with him — me thinking she was working when, instead, she’s … God! And stupid me at home, playing the good girl with my drooling da.
It’s such a joke, considering her attacks on Van. My sister sought comfort in the arms of random boys, hoping to replace the lack of love at home. I get it — and if Mum had a gram of decency and shame she would’ve seen it too. Instead, her accusations a
nd name-calling drove Van further down that road. What Mum didn’t notice were the nights Van curled up with me in the wee small hours. Then her bravado cracked. Boys only want one thing, Miss T. Give it to them and they’ll take and take — and then they’ll shake you off without a second thought. She’d cry, her whole body convulsing inside the circle of my arms. I didn’t have the guts to ask what she meant, scared her dirty secret sins would taint me too. I wish to god I hadn’t been so obsessed with saving my own butt. Hateful, hateful, hateful. Lies, lies. lies.
I can’t stop shaking. The worst part is I always thought my parents worked in tandem, bound by such an all-consuming love it excluded Van and me. I never heard them fight, and blocked my ears to all the other sounds that breached their bedroom walls. Shit, the fact they were united helped me bear the pain. If they had the capacity to love each other, then one day love for us could still blossom — then together we could cross the Alps and come out saved. What a crock. Those von Trapps have a lot to answer for.
I get off the bus outside the supermarket. Roshane’s on check-out and the opportunity’s too good to miss. I load a basket full of basics — bread, milk, cheese, toilet paper, a few cheap frozen meals, toothpaste, shampoo, bits and bobs. Now I’ve established my cover, I eye up the wine. Not that I like it much — hell, I’ve hardly ever drunk a thing — but the urge to drown the shrieking in my head is too powerful. Besides, I’m sick to death of being the one who smiles and does what she’s told. Screw that.
When there’s no one waiting in Roshane’s aisle, I saunter up. I unpack my basket and staunchly meet her surprised eyes. She glances around to check she’s unobserved, then slides the three bottles of wine through without scanning the barcode and bags them straight away.
‘I’ll pay,’ I say.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Like hell you will. Do you really want me to ask for your ID?’ She shrugs. ‘Tell you what, bring one round tomorrow night — Mum and Dad are going out. Call it a trade!’
She’s watching me intently: it’s damn near the first time in years anyone has asked me round. Amazing what a little illegal alcohol can do. ‘Yeah, sounds fair.’ I grin and pay the rest.
She writes her address on the side of the receipt and winks. ‘Seven thirty then?’
‘I work till eight thirty.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Okay.’ I gather up the bags and have to stop myself from running out the door. I never knew it was so easy to break the law. Just walk slowly, kid, Van whispers in my ear. The key is to look confident, like nothing’s wrong.
I walk the four blocks to Max’s house, praying Johannes won’t be there. He’s not. I stash the groceries out of sight, then take a bottle of the wine into the bathroom and lock the door. With any luck, he’ll think I’m out.
The first slug makes me shudder. There’s a sharpness to it; a kind of vinegary aftertaste. Toss it back, girl. I sit cross-legged beside the toilet bowl and slowly work through half the bottle. There’s no effect, then all at once I’m crying, hunched and bitter as I swig more down. My parents are The Thought Police … One paying for his sins in Purgatory, the other breaking several of the Ten Commandments while she quotes the Pope. I feel so sick I have to close my eyes and concentrate to hold it back. Bad move. The axis of the planet shifts.
I shake myself. Need to do something. I creep out to rescue my sketch pad from the porch. Back in the bathroom, I start to draw — compelled to get the sight of Mum’s deceitful kiss out of my head. I sketch their mouths locked like two suckerfish, exaggerating all the lines until they look like one of those sick cartoons the Nazis used against the Jews. There’s buzzing static in my head, as if the radio’s off-station, voices surging in and out … you know nothing … deserted Daddy … woe betide … they’ll shake you off without a second thought … I fling my hands over my ears but all this does is trap the voices. Vincent, Van and Mum are playing Chinese whispers in my head.
Page after page fills with my drawings, furious evictions of the poison building inside. At some point there’s a rapping on the sun-porch door. I don’t respond. Instead I curl into a tiny ball to make myself invisible. Eventually I drift into a woozy doze.
WHEN I WAKE FROM the fog, my mouth’s so dry I have to sluice it out. I cup my hand under the tap and lean over to slurp the water. My god! A thousand clumsy elephants are stomping on my head.
Meanwhile, dusk’s stealing all the colour from the world. The crisp white tiles have greyed and lost their sheen, and shadows cloak everything else. I don’t know how to face this night. Even hearing about Van’s death for the first time was nothing in comparison to this. Then, I thought I’d only lost a sister through random bad luck. Only? Now I’ve lost the whole shebang. I don’t know what the hell is real or what to think.
I pick up the screw cap from the floor, press the sharp end into my wrist and twist. Work it down. I groan with relief as real, normal pain replaces the screaming in my head. I graunch it back and forth until the skin catches and splits. Small beads of black-red blood well up. I start again. Etch another perfect circlet of my brimming blood. It’s strangely calming, observing the creation of this Aboriginal dot painting. Each little blood-ring represents my sorry life. Where I’ve come from. Purgatory. Where I’m heading. The fires of Hell.
The room’s a cell. I’m short of breath. I grab the remaining wine, sculling more to dull my stinging arm, and head outdoors in search of air. The night is still and clear, the sounds of other people’s evenings clinking through the dark. I find a corner of the garden fringed with rhododendron flowers so white they glow, and lie back on the spongy grass. Above me Vincent’s stars pulse with such energy I try to catch it with my hands.
His voice chimes in my head: Everything is miserable, dilapidated … I’m overwhelmed by forebodings … There is no help. He’s right. There’s no point in going on. No point in trying to fix this broken life. I have no heart for it. Can’t see the—
‘Jesus, Tara. What the hell are you doing?’ Johannes stands over me, his face in shadow. Disgust hardens his voice.
I try to prop myself onto one elbow but am swept by dizziness and drop back to the grass. ‘Go’way.’
He squats down next to me and takes the bottle from my hand. He pours the dregs onto the lawn. ‘How much have you had?’
Had? I’ve been had by everyone I ever loved. Who’s next? I start to laugh and it keeps bubbling up and up. An ugly sound. Hysterical. Wine sloshes in my belly and begins to rise.
I roll onto my side just as it overflows — the sickly sweet-and-sour stench causing me to retch again. And again. Not laughing now, crying. I try to crawl away. My arms and legs refuse to work. When I collapse back on the ground, my hair wipes up the mess. ‘Gedaway,’ I scream at him. ‘Leave me alone.’
I know he’s talking but I can’t hear what he says above my own wailing. He grasps me by the arm and tries to haul me to my feet. My body’s weighted down by triple gravity, refusing to cooperate even when it’s clear he won’t give up. Now he slips his hands under my arms, draws me up until my back is pressed against his chest. He knots his arms under my ribs and starts to drag me back towards the house.
‘Walk, bugger you.’
I try. I tell my legs to move one at a time but it’s no good. ‘Sorry, sho sorry.’ And still I cry.
Somehow he tows me back indoors, lugs me to the bathroom and props me in the shower stall. He turns the mixer on and I squawk as freezing water pelts my throbbing head. He warms it slowly till it’s tepid, standing with me in the stall. Now he shampoos my hair, apologising when I mewl. He tips my chin and smears his hand across my face to rinse away the suds. I sneak a look up at him, my focus blurry, and see a wet avenging angel who’s majorly pissed off.
He turns off the water and wrings my hair. I’m standing under my own steam, but only just.
‘Can you get your clothes off?’
‘What?’
He steps outside the shower stall and brandishes a towel, turning his head a
way. ‘Take off your clothes, then dry yourself.’ He’s dripping on the floor, his hair capping his skull.
I attempt to balance on one leg to peel off my soaking jeans but there’s a total disconnect between my brain and limbs. I stumble back against the wall and knock my head. ‘I can’t.’ I sound pathetic.
‘You’re kidding me?’
I’m clearly not.
‘Okay. Oh Jesus. I promise I won’t look.’ He pulls the bunched-up roll of denim over my foot, then strips the other leg. Next my cardigan and tee shirt, until I’m shivering in bra and pants.
Now he throws the towel around my shoulders and starts to rub me down. The fabric’s soft, its movement teasing up the thick absorbent pile. When I was small Van was responsible for giving me my nightly bath. There’s such a comfort in this act that when he reaches round to dry my neck, I press my lips to his. I’ve never kissed a boy before; am surprised by the softness. The pliability. His lips start swelling to meet mine but then it’s over. Just like that. He pulls away, unsmiling, as he resumes his task. Stupid. I hold out my hands for the towel.
Just as he’s passing it he grunts. Snatching up my arm, he peers at it. His rubbing’s made me bleed again. Shock snarls his face.
‘Are you crazy?’ His eyes burn into mine. I look away. ‘Did you do this to yourself?’ He clamps the towel around my wrist to stem the blood.
My head throbs too much to think up an excuse. ‘It helped.’
‘You’re bloody kidding me.’ He rummages inside the bathroom cabinet and brings out a first-aid kit. He starts to bandage my arm.
I stand compliant, praying he’s too revolted by my pathetic act to notice how my nipples show through the thin fabric of my bra. I lean in over his bowed head and sniff its crown. Hot dirt after unexpected rain. Kiss-curls hug the edges of his skull. My whole insides reach out for him, willing him to notice that I’m here, alone, a heartbeat from his arms. He could have me. Here. Right now.
Instead, he tucks the bandage in, then turns his back. ‘Go climb into bed. I’ll dry off, then bring you in a cup of tea.’ He speaks slowly, like I’m a naughty child.